Magisterium Invicta
by TheDarkLordofDoom
Summary: "You know not my design, Herald. I seek a duel of honour. One fought with but our weapons and our strength of arms, and naught else- and I would fight none but the greatest sword-master to ever walk the Lands of Arda." Ages wane and masters fall, their prowess lost none may recall. Witness a duel of honour contested by two epitomes of mastery, the greatest doomed to be forgotten.


**MAGISTERIUM INVICTA**

* * *

**_-Neminem pateris Adversarium-_**

* * *

"_Who is it that calls to the shadows of the vale? Who is it that sits wrapped in his black thought, awaiting the 'fortuitous chance' of my venture into his lair?"_

"_**And why, pray tell, must I answer? I know little of you- save your name. Your name is known to all who are wise and thus would fear- Fiônnôwenûz, herald of Mânawenûz. Eönwë, wrath-bringer of Valinor."**_

"_You must answer for I command your answer. The wise must fear, as you say and know- and you must fear my ire. Reveal to me your purpose and begone ere I strike you down as I have countless greater in the service of your Master."_

"_**True it is, then- you are wise, for a thief and a liar. For a 'fortuitous chance' it is indeed that you should choose to reveal your presence in this vale I am doomed to wander. Of my service to my master, however, you are incorrect in your assumption. I no longer serve He who Arises in Might for He arises in Might no longer. Melkor is become Morgoth, and I… I am doomed to wander."**_

"_Tarry not! I would know your purpose, dark one, and you shall tell me if you wish an escape with your fëa whole."_

"_**And there it is that you misunderstand, Herald- escape is not my wish. What I seek, none can give- none save you. This age is over. This war is nigh-ended. There is naught left for me in this time and this place itself- and so do I seek a warrior's end."**_

"_You… you would ask this of me? You would ask me to grant you a 'warrior's end'? No doubt you expect me to consent to fight you, and no doubt you will have behind you an army of a thousand dark foes with a thousand swords for me to face. I know well the lies of Melkor, dark one- I will not so easily be fooled."_

"_**Then perhaps you are not as wise as I thought. You know not my design, Herald- you know naught indeed. I seek a duel of honour. One fought with but our weapons and our strength of arms, and naught else. And I would fight none but the greatest sword-master to ever walk the Lands of Arda. You think little of my honour- you would be a fool to trust the honour of a foe bound in service to the darkness- yet I give you my word nonetheless. On equal terms shall we fight, and with our swords alone. If you have any pride as a warrior, you will accept, and you will face me in this very vale. I shall allow you the comfort of an army at your beck and call, if perchance you were to falter."**_

"_Very well. In this vale, at this hour on the morrow, I shall come forth and end your part in this our tale."_

"_**It is done, then. Farewell… Herald."**_

* * *

_Anfauglith._

The dark waste of shadow and flame was nigh-silent, blanketed by night and silenced by the very darkness that had arisen to mar the Ard-Galen before it.

Silent as the night was the one figure that yet tarried on open ground, marching alone in the cold darkness.

It was almost a picture of melancholic poetry- a painting from the mind of a blinded artist- and so was the silence broken by music as poetic and as sharp, as absolute as the silence itself.

Eönwë, Herald of Manwë, bringer of hope to Arda and doom to the forces of the Dark Lord, looked to the skies as his tremendous might came forth from his song of power. A great storm would arise, mighty enough to rout any army of Melkor that would seek to entrap him. The might inherent to him, stemming from his Lord, the Elder King, rose in a great gale, to obliterate within its terrible currents any foe and to give him time to escape should any strong enough to resist it emerge.

Thus satisfied, he at last entered the vale.

The Herald wore no armour as he would in battle- but a simple white robe did he don. He carried with him two scabbards.

This time it would be to wait, or to perhaps shout his foe's name in challenge. He knew not his foe's name, however- only that they were to fight, and to the destruction of their mortal coil.

"_So you have come alone and in honour, my lord Eönwë. I confess myself gladdened. You shall find I have kept my word- here shall our battle commence."_

"Cast off the shadows you conceal yourself in, dark one, ere I strike them down as I shall you. I shall not fight a phantom of the winds, but an incarnate of flesh and blood- and I would know my opponent ere I fell him."

"_To know your enemy? A powerful advantage… so be it."_

And at this word came an eruption of power and shadow. The face of the rock that ensconced the vale revealed itself to be naught but an illusion. There was within a hollow, a place dark enough to obscure even the Herald's maiarin sight. Out stepped a black-clad figure, akin to a living phantom. In his hand was a single scabbard hewn of metal, and the deadly weapon within.

"Who is it that would challenge me? Your name, dark one, ere we begin."

"_Name? No doubt you wish to call me by name, 'Lord of the Maiar', so that you may command me. I shall bow to none. My name, however- you will not know either way, for it lies forgotten in the sands of time. I assure you Herald, my name will have no meaning to you."_

"Yet I would have it nonetheless." said an unfazed Eönwë, who punctuated his remark with a strong wind aimed at his foe's face. The hood flew off, and he saw features that did not surprise him- yet shocked him nonetheless.

The figure was thin- almost gaunt- and yet Eönwë knew a terrible strength rested in his foe's veins. He beheld his grim, set face, with eyes cold, black and dead- and yet not. For as he beheld them, they flared a sinister yellow- a colour of restrained fury, of silent rage. The mask of stone that was his visage belied but one feature, the parallel lines of three great scars below the left eye, and a single one on the right cheek that made it appear hewed. The remnants of a terrible battle, no doubt- and Eönwë knew which battle it was.

"**My name? As you command it, Herald- My name is Ancantár, the Lord of Death's jaws- and the power I command is mastery."**

* * *

With that word, the dark maia strode forth, swathed in a robe and cloak as black as Eönwë's was white. He bore a bundle of rags, which he drew forth and began unravelling with the most diligent care and a certain _reverence. _

"_Ancantár." _It could not be.

Eönwë knew of this maia- indeed, he was what the Herald regarded his greatest folly.

"_Ancantár- the Hand of Wrath. The Silencer. The Dark Conqueror. The Nightbringer."_

"Ah, you know well my names of power, do you not, my lord Herald? Forgotten honorifics to serve as naught but epithets, I thought- yet it would seem there are those who remember the terror I once wreaked."

And Eönwë did remember- how could he forget?

For it was long ago, when the world was born, when the Valar yet resided in Almaren that the tale of the 'Nightbringer' had reached his ear. It was the tale of the day of the destruction of the Great Lamps Iluin and Ormal, and of how Melkor had destroyed them. Venturing forth to Iluin first, he had made to leave a guard to stay any who would hinder his plans to the south- and that had been Ancantár. He was sure of it.

Shaken by the betrayal of a…_certain maia… _he had once regarded the closest of friends, Eönwë could not bear to go south and fight- leaving instead the warrior-maiar of Tulkas and Oromë to destroy Melkor's vanguard.

He would remember it as the day the finest warriors of Valinor knew pain, and he remembered how many had been so very utterly slaughtered that not only were their hröar beyond repair, they were also maimed in fëa.

In pursuit of Melkor, Tulkas had not ceased his laughter, yet when his broken and thoroughly defeated maiar returned to him, he had let loose a howl of rage.

Eönwë was not to be found on the field of battle, his mastery of the blade sorely missed against this Dark Conqueror who made the indomitable hosts know fear. It was said that he used no outward power of his own, but by some Melkor-given gift managed to silence those of his foes, and with a guard always by either side had utterly slaughtered any he met in a fair fight.

The Herald had grieved for many a friend on that day- poor Melehtar, and Poldorëon the strong… both could not be housed in fána for a long time. They were never the same afterwards. As for those who but saw the bloody scene, they had naught of choice but to blame him, for they had seen no-one do with but a sword what their dark foe did, save Eönwë.

In the Battle of the Powers, he had sought to hunt him down, surveying every battlefield for a dread, dark figure wreaking terror on the Valarin armies… and to no avail. No battlefield was he to be found in, and yet the bitter news of the silent demise of two of the maiar he had trained, Telumehtar and Arimaition, vanquished somewhere away from the field of battle, had reached his ears and only served to deepen his grief and strengthen his resolve to face this foe.

It was indeed, then, a fortuitous chance. By Varda, very much so!

"_You. Yea, I know you- slaughterer. Monster. Murderer! Many days have I awaited our meeting, and if it is truly your demise you crave, then by Eru, you will have it!"_

It struck Ancantár to say something, but he chose not to. Why tell him that he was only doing as ordered, and he would most likely have been captured by the very same maiar he maimed? No doubt the Herald would think nothing of his preference for his mortal fána's death over capture. Why seek to make excuses, when his foe craved to kill him, when the ever-calm Herald _wanted _his demise? The circumstances were perfect. He laughed bitterly, humourlessly, and uttered-

"Ah, good it is, then, that you possess the depth of memory I find so admirable. Yes, I was indeed the Dread Knight of Utumno, the dark shadow that came forth with but a sword and slew those you would send to belay my lord's plans. 'Tis to my hope this brings you the closure you wished- yet I called upon you to contest a duel, not to bandy words. Your sword, please- let us begin."

And with that, Ancantár dispensed with his cloak, and ceased unravelling his bundle, revealing inside a dark sword- it was a simple longsword, but forged of the Dark Iron of Utumno. It had little to decorate it, yet was an elegant blade, with the slightly upturned, petering crossguard, and the small crenellations on either side. It was perfectly angular, both the short and long edge appearing sharp.

As a true master, Eönwë's righteous fury was all but gone from his visage, replaced with a calculating calm on an expressionless face. He set down behind him one of the scabbards he carried with him- the one that carried his greatsword. He took from the second his longsword- and a thing of beauty it was.

The Lady Varda was not given to forge much herself after she wrought the very stars, but for the one she regarded her dear child, she had made an exception. Needless to say, the sword was perfect in every aspect, and shone with a great radiance.

A duel could be won in the moments ere it began in earnest- and at this, Eönwë was foremost. He sent a gust of wind at Ancantár, misinterpreted as some sort of challenge to resume guard- for in reality the herald could _feel _through every little wisp of air, and he ascertained now that it truly was to be a duel of honour, as Ancantár had concealed no armour.

He, therefore, placed the thumb of his right hand on the flat of the blade, with the wrist close to the crossguard. If Ancantár was surprised, he did not show it- but Eönwë sensed a little flicker of… _alarm- _or perhaps _distrust- _from his foe. He hid his satisfaction.

For this was a technique invented by Eönwë himself, and with this grip he could execute several hidden-strikes that his foe could never anticipate. He knew better than any how blades could _feel, _and in unarmoured combat, the assured contact with his blade and the knowledge of a foe's strength in any bind was indispensable.

Ancantár himself resumed his mask of stone, and stood in the guard of the changer. The Boar's tooth, it was called- a terribly versatile guard to take, and elegant for his dark appearance.

Eönwë, for his part, chose to surprise his foe further by taking the stance of a wrath-guard. From this position, he could execute any cut he wished, and so great was his proficiency as the greatest arms-master of Arda that he could not care less of the consequences of telegraphing his cuts.

For the briefest of moments, their set eyes met, the Herald's stern, storm-grey with the dark one's baleful yellow.

And then it began, in that most hallowed of traditions, the swordsman's triangle-step. A time of deliberation, of caution, of a storm roaring with threat ere it broke.

Eönwë knew well a true master's propensity to defend from a low guard a vertical cut, and declined to attack. It was then Ancantár's initiative, and he chose, from his tricky guard, to attempt a rapid cut to the hand.

The Herald saw it, and responded with the least of his self-devised 'master-cuts'- strikes that could attack an opponent and defend the very same opening as the avenue of attack with precision. He stepped back immediately, and delivered what would have been a decisive cleave to the head had not his foe, with a lightning dexterity, raised his sword to the crown and forced it aside, retreating before he could follow up with a twitch-thrust.

The Dark maia was somewhat harried, and impressed. Relentless, the Herald continued, thundering down a rather premeditated and yet terrifying wrath-hew from its namesake guard. Ancantár, having little time, attempted a deflectional parry, and yet as he overran Eönwë's blade, the latter, through the versatility of his thumb-grip, _felt _that the hand of wrath was weakening his force in the bind, and countered with a deadly drop-put thrust.

As Ancantár stepped back, reeling, he clutched his bloodied chest, holding his sword in a cumbersome one-handed long-point, his intent very much to hide behind it. He could not help but think- it was not mastery alone he faced. It was _genius. Very well, then- he would respond fittingly. _He knew Eönwë would attempt to finish him now with a deathstroke, a wrath-hew that would go above his low, feeble guard.

And such was his anticipation that the Herald did just that. Drawing a swift breath, Ancantár furiously deflected the strike, injuring his wrist- and yet as Eönwë used his foe's force to bring his blade in from the other side in a rapid snap, the Lord of Death's jaws struck.

Summoning his ainurin might to him, Ancantár channelled his very rage and battle-fury, calling to the shadows of Arda and taking hold of them by pure will alone. An eruption of sheer _darkness_, and Eönwë's form was thrown away, gasping, deprived of breath.

He rose within an instant, to see a twisted _bloodlight _from Ancantár's palm. The red light suffused the wound and closed it, yet drew a snarl of pain from the maia. His wrist was healed similarly, and was shaking.

'_So may the servants of Melkor avail of the healing arts as well, I see- a pity that it must come at such great price.' _thought Eönwë. He beheld the hot tears swathing Ancantár's face, tears that were never meant to leave his eyes and yet could not be prevented.

He had, all the while, resumed his guard. Eönwë marched forth again, taking once again his wrath-guard. The duel had begun with the highest standard, and would be continued thus till the end.

Opting for an unorthodox tactic, Ancantár made not a movement before Eönwë closed in on him, before lashing out in a never-before seen one-handed sweep at the latter's legs from his guard. Forced to dodge with a leg-void, Eönwë found that Ancantár had not in the least overswung and perfectly deflected his downward strike, his wrists now turning the sword with the most efficient of movements in one of the more visually scintillating techniques of the trade.

Having two options, to pass to the side or to be conservative, Eönwë chose the latter, manoeuvring his blade to catch his foe's on the flat, and immediately turning against it to thrust at his abdomen.

Such a turn of the blade with a wrist was impossible for any but a maia- and so was the dodge that followed.

Ancantár, having stepped back swifter than the wind, chose now to take a high guard above the shoulder, not with both his arms upraised as he would have liked. While the latter position would allow him greater flexibility for his hanging parries, he feared what Eönwë could do and how swiftly, for there was a chance he could not bring the blade down in time.

"Ah, Herald, you disappoint me. Is that the end of your much-vaunted skill? Is there naught more you would wish to throw at a foe none else can conquer? Bring forth now your true might, for I tire of such trivialities."

The resplendent Herald, a dark wind now scattering his golden locks, stared with an expression of cold challenge. He would not leave his wrath-guard.

It was time for another master-cut.

On Ancantár's inevitable cut from his right side to his head, Eönwë responded with a wrath-hew: for within that well-known strike there was hidden a technique. He did not parry strongly onto his foe's sword, nay- he sensed, once again, that Ancantár was weak on his sword, attempting to overrun his blade by turning his own- and threw his point forwards, thrusting nigh into his face.

If not for the latter's ancient experience and unmatchable reflexes, his senses of danger honed by years of terribly harsh learning under Melkor's wing, it would have been over. _Such terror from such a common strike. _

The bottom of his chin slightly cut, Ancantár retreated, still in his high guard.

Eönwë attempted to bait his foe into a bind, once by deliberately moving far slower than he was in truth, but Ancantár was a master as was he, and had deduced the innumerable number of techniques which Eönwë could use in a bind due to his thumb-grip, despite being himself unfamiliar with it.

He disengaged subtly and masterfully every time, meeting Eönwë's slashes and dropping the sword subtly to avoid the blade-lock. Eönwë could not help but admire his foe's skill and tactical awareness- a grand duel this would be, in the end. A pity that it would be forgotten.

_So be it, then. _

Leaving his wrath-guard, as its deception would harry Ancantár no longer, Eönwë took a key-guard- an unorthodox guard, and one of dubious effectiveness. If an opponent cared only for blood on his hand, it was largely ineffective. If, however, the opponent was an experienced veteran, he would respect the threat of this guard, perhaps too much.

Having deduced correctly, Eönwë waited the tiniest of moments as Ancantár respected the guard and slightly lowered his own. Then, as a key turning in a hole, Eönwë thrust his sword forward, turning on its axis. It would not be deflected by the flat from the position of a crown, and Ancantár had to step to the side, turning it away.

Eönwë saw his foe, then, in a plough-guard, keeping him in threat with his point and still posing the danger of a cut. In this moment shone the Herald's mastery.

From above he aimed a diagonal strike, deflecting Ancantár's counter-cut with his crossguard, and hitting the side of his head with one fluid motion. Staggered, and with blood flowing forth from the cut, Ancantár somehow managed a masterful deflection and followed through with a stab- but Eönwë was ready.

Fully aware that his stomach was seconds from being pierced, Eönwë cheated his blade forward before turning it diagonally and sharply snapping it down onto Ancantár's akin to the jaw of a crocodile.

'_Melkor almighty, from where did he get such leverage?' _would have been Ancantár's thought had he time enough to think, as his blade was somehow completely turned aside.

His foe at his mercy, Eönwë did not execute the natural diagonal undercut to the face that was expected. He instead chose to prolong the inevitable, sliding his blade over his foe's arm and then rushing in to grapple with him.

The cold light of hatred and vengeance shone in the Herald's eye as he freed his own blade, and raised it to stab directly into Ancantár's very face…

_And that was where he came undone. _

_How could he but murder him, and so brutally at that? _

Even if Ancantár was a monster, what choice did he have? Was it not his assigned duty that he had fulfilled on that dark day?

The maia had so far shown the greatest of honour, and had fought with an enviable prowess and courage, and here he was, saying only that he sought his demise…

'_Such lies, Fiônnôwenûz, such worthless lies.'_

What? What was this? Why such bloodlust? Why, exactly, did he nurse such a burning hatred- why was his 'righteous' fury so very… _fearsome? _

It was but that moment of conflict, that momentary flicker in Eönwë's eye that told Ancantár he had escaped the very jaws of death of which he claimed to be the harbinger.

A shout of controlled rage, of cold fury, and Eönwë cared not for the terrible pain that assailed his every sense as he struck the rock wall of the vale.

All that occupied his mind was that _this was not his intent. _

The Herald of Manwë had ever shown mercy to his foes unless they were beyond it. It was the teaching of his lord to be just and fair, and to not unleash wanton death. If he attempted the latter, would he not be akin to Ancantár himself?

And what of Ancantár, the supposed murderer, who had stopped short honourably, who was not charging after him in blind rage, who chose instead to await his recovery while he caught his own breath? Had he not shown him naught but honour in this their duel?

"_Nay, this is not myself. Aiya Mânawenûz, this is not thy child! This is not he who thou dost hold closer than a son!"_

Too late did he realise the darkness behind his intent, the force behind his hatred. He had been a fool- he should have known the touch of the malingering presence that held dominion over the vale. He should have known who had 'guided' his hand, who stoked his rage, who stood behind the veil of his own identity, in the guise of his better sense.

"_**Dušamanûđhâz!" **_he roared, to Ancantár's shock and mild revulsion.

"How dare you insult my lord so! He is _Belekôrôz_, narrow-minded fool! Not _Dušamanûđhâz, nay! _Not Morgoth, Melkor!"

Eönwë cared not for what his foe said, for he could feel the Dark Lord's power flooding the vale and his mind.

"_Morgoth! Thou shalt not see triumph this day, as thou ne'er shalt! Save thy lies and thy treachery, for till the end I shall defy thee!"_

Ancantár, for some reason, bore an expression of pure hatred, and roused suddenly to wrath, made to finally strike Eönwë, when he heard _it, _as did the Herald.

The dark vale filled with a surprisingly rich and full laughter, sonorous and melodic- yet it was a laughter that made the mountains shake. It was a glorious sound to hearken to… yet it drowned out all other sounds in the glory of its timbre. _Beautiful and terrible. _

Eönwë heard this laugh, and was struck with a memory that elicited treacherous tears… _It was Manwë's laugh. _

Melkor's laughter was so very akin to his brother's in so many ways, and it was somehow grander and yet less fulfilling. Manwë laughed little, if at all, nowadays, so much so that Eönwë found himself missing Melkor's laughter when it ended, and wished it to continue. There was, however, a distinction- when Manwë laughed, to his Herald the world seemed at once more beautiful and the more content he grew. With Melkor's laugh came thoughts unbidden of how the world paled in comparison to the owner of this grand voice, and of how all that was great and beautiful was insignificant in comparison to the mightiest of the Ainur.

For Ancantár it elicited a different response. The Dark maia had done nothing to please Melkor yet, but on hearing the laugh, he felt compelled to kneel. He drove his sword into the ground and bent his neck, uttering _'Thy will be done, master… now and forevermore.'_

* * *

_**\- In Nihilum aemulis suis -**_

**\- END OF PART ONE -**

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**GLOSSARY**

**MAGISTERIUM INVICTA- ****Mastery Unconquerable**

**Fiônnôwenûz: ****A Valarin version of Fionwë, the Herald's original name.**

**Ancantár- ****Lord of [Death's] Jaws**

**Dušamanûđhâz: ****Morgoth**

**Belekôrôz****: Melkor**

**Almaren is the isle at the centre of Middle-earth where the Valar abode at the beginning, and Iluin and Ormal are the two lamps Aulë wrought before the two trees came into being. They were destroyed by our dear favourite Dark Lord. **

**Melehtar- ****Wielder of Might**

**Poldorëon-**** Strong/Steadfast one**

**Telumehtar-****Star-hallowed vanquisher**

**Arimaition- ****Skilful one**

**The 'certain maia' who aggrieved the Herald with his betrayal is none other than Mairon/Sauron.**

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**Author's Note:** **It has occurred to me that despite being a swordsman myself, I have yet to write any correct, realistic, elegant duels. I have so far portrayed any duel in any story in a very typical, nondescript fashion, perhaps for simplicity or perhaps due to the illusion that it was how the readers wished it.**

**This contest has, therefore, made use the principles of German Longsword (as set down by Grand Master Johannes Liechtenauer in his cryptic recital and Joachim Meyer in his 1570 text), from which I have derived my own training. It is to my admittedly unreasonable hope that this should serve as a tutorial, of sorts, if you wish to write an actual, realistic duel yet turn it impossibly long for no reason whatsoever. **

**There is no reason to use some of the 'technical' terms I have used, and please pardon my own use of them. **

**If you are interested in sword-fighting and wish to understand the true nature of the Duelling, read the lecture enclosed herewith, but I would advise against it if you do not wish to drown in words. I shall send a stroke-by-stroke analysis to someone in particular who has proved insatiably curious and has in the past so drowned my humble self.**

* * *

**OF THE NATURE OF DUELLING**

Keep in mind that this is a duel of honour fought unarmoured.

You will have noticed that despite my many words, this duel has so far been a very short one in terms of actual moves and attempted strikes, yet very long by the standards of an actual fight.

I have used many times the word 'vertical strike' or 'vertical cut'. That is in reference to the basic attack in longsword fencing, the so-called **Oberhau.**

It is typically executed from a High Guard or **Vom Tag, **the most popular and essential guard, I think, in Liecthenauer's systems. The Vom Tag itself is subject to many interpretations, such as with both arms upraised or over the shoulder.

The 'Wrath-guard' that Eönwë favours is the **Zornhut, **a guard with the sword over and behind the shoulder, with the point almost facing the opponent. It is a controversial guard and is not one of the essential four guards.

I have also used the term 'wrath-hew'. That is in reference to the **Zornhau, **one of the Master-cuts or 'Meisterhaue' as Meyer writes of them from his interpretation of the Liechtenauer recital.

The 'Changer's guard' or 'Boar's tooth' finds its origin in **Fiore de'i Liberi** and the Italian systems, although there is a place for it in the German systems.

The 'Key-Guard' that Eönwë uses is the **Schlussel, **and is another secondary guard. It has quite a niche application.

Of the Meisterhaue, they are strikes that attack and defend at the same time. The techniques I have described here are relatively basic and nothing too flashy, but in truth they are arguably the most effective. Liechtenauer cryptically writes 'Use X meisterhau against Y guard and you automatically break it', and Eönwë, being the epitome of mastery, tries to use a meisterhau as often as possible, and that is very often.

When the duel begins, Eönwë starts with a **Scheitelhau, **a vertical strike to the head that also defends the hands and the midsection of the wielder. It is effective against low guards such as the **Alber **(Fool's Guard) or the Boar's tooth.

The 'Crown' is arguably the most defensive position in sword-fighting, with the point raised up to parry incoming strikes.

The 'Thumb-grip' first appears in Liechtenauer's writings and is described in detail by Meyer. It is supremely effective in unarmoured combat, allowing the swordsman to execute various strikes that are otherwise impossible such as the **Schielhau **(squinting strike), another of the master-cuts that Eönwë uses to break the 'plough-guard' of Ancantár (**Pflug**).

The thumb-grip is used to enhance **Fühlen,** or 'feeling'. Yes, swords can feel things. A 'bind', or a 'bladelock' as some of you may know it, is a situation when the blades clash. An opponent may be 'weak' in applying force on the bind, if he attempts to guide your blade away with an 'active parry' or 'deflectional parry'- the most basic and essential longsword technique.

With a thumb-grip, there are innumerable techniques to emerge the victor from a bind.

Both Ancantár and Eönwë often weaken their force on a parry to attempt to turn their blade, trying to overrun the other's. Believe me when I tell you that this is clinically effective, as you can simply stab your opponent with a thusly turned blade with no danger to yourself. You do not need to strike again. This principle is called **überlaufen**, or 'overrunning'.

The 'drop-put thrust' that Eönwë uses to counter Ancantárs attempt as seizing control of the bind is the **Absetzen.** It is a very effective technique to use as a counter whenever you sense a slacking in the force the opponent exerts in a bind.

The 'hidden technique' behind the Zornhau, which Eönwë uses to almost stab Ancantár's face is known as the **Zornhau-ort. **It is quite simple, really. I have described it sufficiently.

The last meisterhau Eönwë uses is the **Krumphau**, or 'Crooked Strike'. It is essential in any sort of advanced fencing, as it deflects any sort of thrust, stab or what I like to call 'stabby guard' such as the **Langhort** or long-point with the highest precision. It is why no advanced fencer ever favours a long-point, and Ancantár only attempts a thrust out of necessity, as he did not have knowledge of the master-cuts.

There is one last meisterhau, the **Zwerchhau,** my favourite of the lost. I plan to introduce it in a fitting fashion in the next part, in which this duel will conclude and our dear Melkor will thoroughly enjoy himself manipulating these two.

Please PM me if you are interested in historical fencing and martial arts, as I shall not explain further here. I wish to avoid as many drownings as possible.


End file.
